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M A K I NG A I I N T E L L IG I BL E
herman cappelen
and josh dever

MAKING AI
INTELLIGIBLE
Philosophical Foundations

1
 1
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, ox2 6dp,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Herman Cappelen and Josh Dever 2021
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
First Edition published in 2021
Impression: 1
Some rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, for commercial purposes,
without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly
permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate
reprographics rights organization.

This is an open access publication, available online and distributed under the terms of a
Creative Commons Attribution – Non Commercial – No Derivatives 4.0
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http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.
Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of this licence
should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
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Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020951691
ISBN 978–0–19–289472–4
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192894724.001.0001
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and
for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
 CON TEN T S

PART I: INTRODUCTION AND OVERVIEW

1. Introduction 3
The Goals of This Book: The Role of Philosophy in AI Research 3
An Illustration: Lucie’s Mortgage Application is Rejected 4
Abstraction: The Relevant Features of the Systems
We Will be Concerned with in This Book 10
The Ubiquity of AI Decision-­Making 13
The Central Questions of this Book 17
‘Content? That’s So 1980’ 21
What This Book is Not About: Consciousness and
Whether ‘Strong AI’ is Possible 24
Connection to the Explainable AI Movement 25
Broad and Narrow Questions about Representation 27
Our Interlocutor: Alfred, The Dismissive Sceptic 28
Who is This Book for? 28

2. Alfred (the Dismissive Sceptic): Philosophers,

Go Away! 31
A Dialogue with Alfred (the Dismissive Sceptic) 35

PART II: A PROPOSAL FOR HOW TO

ATTRIBUTE CONTENT TO AI

3. Terminology: Aboutness, Representation, and

Metasemantics 51
Loose Talk, Hyperbole, or ‘Derived Intentionality’? 53
 con t e n ts

Aboutness and Representation 54

AI, Metasemantics, and the Philosophy of Mind 56

4. Our Theory: De-­Anthropocentrized Externalism 59

First Claim: Content for AI Systems Should Be Explained
Externalistically60
Second Claim: Existing Externalist Accounts of Content
Are Anthropocentric 67
Third Claim: We Need Meta-­Metasemantic Guidance 72
A Meta-­Metasemantic Suggestion: Interpreter-­centric
Knowledge-­Maximization 75

5. Application: The Predicate ‘High Risk’ 81

The Background Theory: Kripke-­Style Externalism 82
Starting Thought: SmartCredit Expresses High Risk
Contents Because of its Causal History 86
Anthropocentric Abstraction of ‘Anchoring’ 87
Schematic AI-­Suitable Kripke-­Style Metasemantics 88
Complications and Choice Points 90
Taking Stock 97
Appendix to Chapter 5: More on Reference Preservation
in ML Systems 98

6. Application: Names and the Mental Files Framework 103

Does SmartCredit Use Names? 103
The Mental Files Framework to the Rescue? 105
Epistemically Rewarding Relations for Neural Networks? 108
Case Studies, Complications, and Reference Shifts 111
Taking Stock 116

vi
 con t e n ts

7. Application: Predication and Commitment 117

Predication: Brief Introduction to the Act Theoretic View 118
Turning to AI and Disentangling Three Different Questions 121
The Metasemantics of Predication: A Teleofunctionalist
Hypothesis123
Some Background: Teleosemantics and Teleofunctional Role 125
Predication in AI 128
AI Predication and Kinds of Teleology 129
Why Teleofunctionalism and Not Kripke or Evans? 131
Teleofunctional Role and Commitment (or Assertion) 132
Theories of Assertion and Commitment for Humans
and AI 133

PART III: CONCLUSION

8. Four Concluding Thoughts 139

Dynamic Goals 140
A Story of Neural Networks Taking Over in Ways
We Cannot Understand 140
Why This Story is Disturbing and Relevant 144
Taking Stock and General Lessons 147
The Extended Mind and AI Concept Possession 148
Background: The Extended Mind and Active Externalism 148
The Extended Mind and Conceptual Competency 150
From Experts Determining Meaning to Artificial
Intelligences Determining Meaning 150
Some New Distinctions: Extended Mind Internalist versus
Extended Mind Externalists 151
Kripke, Putnam, and Burge as Extended Mind Internalists 152

vii
 con t e n ts

Concept Possession, Functionalism, and Ways of Life 155

Implications for the View Defended in This Book 156
An Objection Revisited 157
Reply to the Objection 158
What Makes it a Stop Sign Detector? 158
Adversarial Perturbations 160
Explainable AI and Metasemantics 162

Bibliography 167
Index 173

viii
 part i
INTRODUCTION AND
OVERVIEW
 1

INTRODUCTION

The Goals of This Book: The Role of

Philosophy in AI Research

T his is a book about some aspects of the philosophical founda-

tions of Artificial Intelligence. Philosophy is relevant to
many aspects of AI and we don’t mean to cover all of them.1 Our
focus is on one relatively underexplored question: Can
­philosophical the­or­ies of meaning, language, and content help
us understand, explain, and maybe also improve AI systems?
Our answer is ‘Yes’. To show this, we first articulate some pressing
issues about how to interpret and explain the outputs we get

1
Thus we are not going to talk about the consequences that the new wave in AI
might have for the empiricism/rationalism debate (see Buckner 2018), nor are we
going to consider—much—the question of whether it is reasonable to say that
what these programs do is ‘learning’ in anything like the sense with which we are
familiar (Buckner 2019, 4.2), and we’ll pass over interesting questions about what
we can learn about philosophy of mind from deep learning (López-­Rubio 2018).
We are not going to talk about the clearly very important ethical issues involved,
either the recondite ones, science-­fictional ones (such as the paperclip maximizer
and Roko’s Basilisk (see e.g. Bostrom 2014 for some of these issues)), or the
more down-­to-­earth issues about, for example, self-­driving cars (Nyholm and
Smids 2016, Lin et al. 2017), or racist and sexist bias in AI resulting from racist
and sexist data sets (Zou and Schiebinger 2018). We also won’t consider political
consequences and implications for policy making (Floridi et al. 2018).

Making AI Intelligible: Philosophical Foundations. Herman Cappelen and Joshua Dever, Oxford University Press (2021).
© Herman Cappelen and Joshua Dever. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192894724.003.0001
 m a k ing a i in t e l l igibl e

from advanced AI systems. We then use philosophical theories to

answer questions like the above.

An Illustration: Lucie’s Mortgage Application is Rejected

Here is a brief story to illustrate how we use certain forms of arti-

ficial intelligence and how those uses raise pressing philosophical
questions:

Lucie needs a mortgage to buy a new house. She logs onto her
bank’s webpage, fills in a great deal of information about herself
and her financial history, and also provides account names and
passwords for all of her social media accounts. She submits this to
the bank. In so doing, she gives the bank permission to access her
credit score. Within a few minutes, she gets a message from her
bank saying that her application has been declined. It has been
declined because Lucie’s credit score is too low; it’s 550, which is
considered very poor. No human beings were directly involved in
this decision. The calculation of Lucie’s credit score was done by a
very sophisticated form of artificial intelligence, called SmartCredit.
A natural way to put it is that this AI system says that Lucie has a low
credit score and on that basis, another part of the AI system decides
that Lucie should not get a mortgage.

It’s natural for Lucie to wonder where this number 550 came from.
This is Lucie’s first question:

Lucie’s First Question. What does the output ‘550’ that has
been assigned to me mean?

The bank has a ready answer to that question: the number 550 is a
credit score, which represents how credit-­worthy Lucie is. (Not
very, unfortunately.) But being told this doesn’t satisfy Lucie’s

4
 in t roduc t ion

unease. On reflection, what she really wants to know is why the

output means that. This is Lucie’s second question:

Lucie’s Second Question: Why is the ‘550’ that the c­ omputer

displays on the screen an assessment of my credit-worthiness?
What makes it mean that?

It’s then natural for Lucie to suspect that answering this question
requires understanding how SmartCredit works. What’s going on
under the hood that led to the number 550 being assigned to
Lucie? The full story gets rather technical, but the central details
can be set out briefly:

Simple Sketch of How a Neural Network Works2

SmartCredit didn’t begin life as a credit scoring program. Rather, it
started life as a general neural network. Its building blocks are small
‘neuron’ programs. Each neuron is designed to take a list of input
data points and apply some mathematical function to that list to
produce a new output list. Different neurons can apply different
functions, and even a single neuron can change, over time, which
function it applies.
The neurons are then arranged into a network. That means that
various neurons are interconnected, so that the output of one
­neuron provides part of the input to another neuron. In particular,
the neurons are arranged into layers. There is a top layer of
­neurons—none of these neurons are connected to each other, and
all of them are designed to receive input from some outside data
source. Then there is a second layer. Neurons on the top layer are
connected to neurons on the second layer, so that top layer neurons

2
For a gentle and quick introduction to the computer science behind basic
neural networks, see Rashid 2016. A relatively demanding article-­length intro-
duction is LeCun et al. 2015, and a canonical textbook that doesn’t shirk detail
and is freely available online is Goodfellow et al. 2016.

5
 m a k ing a i in t e l l igibl e

provide inputs to second layer neurons. Each top layer neuron is

connected to every second layer neuron, but the connections also
have variable weight. Suppose the top layer neurons T1 and T2 are
connected to second layer neurons S1 and S2, but that the T1-­to-­S1
connection and the T2-­to-­S2 connections are weighted heavily
while the T1-­to-­S2 connection and the T2-­to-­S1 connections are
weighted lightly. Then the input to S1 will be a mixture of the T1 and
T2 outputs with the T1 output dominating, while the input to S2
will be a mixture of the T1 and T2 outputs with the T2 output dom-
inating. And just as the mathematical function applied by a given
neuron can change, so can the weighting of connections between
neurons.
After the second layer there is a third layer, and then a fourth, and
so on. Eventually there is a bottom layer, the output of which is the
final output of SmartCredit. The bottom layer of neurons is
designed so that that final output is always some number between
1 and 1000.
The bank offers to show Lucie a diagram of the SmartCredit neur­al
network. It’s a complicated diagram—there are 10 levels, each con-
taining 128 neurons. That means there are about 150,000 connec-
tions between neurons, each one labelled with some weight.
And each neuron is marked with its particular mathematical
­transformation function, represented by a list of thousands of
­coefficients determining a particular linear transformation on a
­thousands-­of-­dimensions vector.

Lucie finds all of this rather unilluminating. She wonders what

any of these complicated mathematical calculations has to do
with why she can’t get a loan for a new house. The bank
continues explaining. So far, Lucie is told, none of this
­
­information about the neural network structure of SmartCredit
explains why it’s evaluating Lucie’s creditworthiness. To learn
about that, we need to consider the neural network’s training
history.

6
 in t roduc t ion

A bit more about how SmartCredit was created

Once the initial neural network was programmed, designers
started training it. They trained it by giving it inputs of the sort that
Lucie has also helpfully provided. Inputs were thus very long lists of
data including demographic information (age, sex, race, residential
location, and so on), financial information (bank account balances,
annual income, stock holdings, income tax report contents, and so
on), and an enormous body of social media data (posts liked, groups
belonged to, Twitter accounts followed, and so on). In the end, all of
this data is just represented as a long list of numbers. These inputs
are given to the initial neural network, and some final output is pro-
duced. The programmers then evaluate that output, and give the
program a score based on how acceptable its output was that meas-
ures the program’s error score. If the output was a good output, the
score is a low score; if the output was bad, the score is a high score.
The program then responds to the score by trying to redesign its
neural network to produce a lower score for the same input. There
are a number of complicated mathematical methods that can be
used to do the redesigning, but they all come down to making small
changes in weighting and checking to see whether those small
changes would have made the score lower or higher. Typically, this
then means that a bunch of differential equations need to be solved.
With the necessary computations done, the program adjusts its
weights, and then it’s ready for the next round of training.

Lucie, of course, is curious about where this scoring method came

from—how do the programmers decide whether SmartCredit has
done a good job in assigning a final output to input data?

The Scoring Method

The bank explains that the programmers started with a database of
millions of old credit cases. Each case was a full demographic,
financial, and social media history of a particular person, as well as
a credit score that an old-­fashioned human credit assessor had
assigned to that person. SmartCredit was then trained on that data

7
 m a k ing a i in t e l l igibl e

set—over and over it was given inputs (case histories) from the
data set, and its neural network output was scored against the ori­
gin­al credit assessment. And over and over SmartCredit reweighted
its own neural network trying to get its outputs more and more in
line with the original credit assessments.
That’s why, the bank explains, SmartCredit has the particular col-
lections of weights and functions that it does in its neural network.
With a different training set, the same underlying program could
have developed different weights and ended up as a program for
evaluating political affiliation, or for determining people’s ­favourite
movies, or just about anything that might reasonably be extracted
from the mess of input social media data.

Lucie, though, finds all of this a bit too abstract to be very helpful.
What she wants to know is why she, in particular, was assigned a
score of 550, in particular. None of this information about the
neural architecture or the training history of SmartCredit seems
to answer that question.

How all this applies to Lucie

Wanting to be helpful, the bank offers to let Lucie watch the com-
putational details of SmartCredit’s assessment of Lucie’s case. First
they show Lucie what the input data for her case looks like. It’s a list
of about 100,000 integers. The bank can tell Lucie a bit about the
meaning of that list—they explain that one number represents the
number of Twitter followers she has, and another number repre-
sents the number of times she has ‘liked’ commercial postings on
Facebook, and so on.
Then they show Lucie how that initial data is processed by
SmartCredit. Here things become more obscure. Lucie can watch
the computations filter their way down the neural network. Each
neuron receives an input list and produces an output list, and those
output lists are combined using network weightings to produce
inputs for subsequent neurons. Eventually, sure enough, the num-
ber ‘550’ drops out of the bottom layer.

8
 in t roduc t ion

But Lucie feels rather unilluminated by that cascading sequence of

numbers. She points to one neuron in the middle of the network
and to the first number (13,483) in the output sequence of that
­neuron. What, she asks, does that particular number mean? What
is it saying about Lucie’s credit worthiness? This is Lucie’s third
question:

Lucie’s Third Question: How is the final meaningful state of

SmartCredit (the output ‘550’, meaning that Lucie’s credit score
is 550) the result of other meaningful considerations that
SmartCredit is taking into account?

The bank initially insists that that question doesn’t really have an
answer. That particular neuron’s output doesn’t by itself mean
anything—it’s just part of a big computational procedure that
holistically yields an assessment of Lucie’s credit worthiness. No
particular point in the network can be said to mean anything in
particular—it’s the network as a whole that’s telling the bank
something.
Lucie is understandably somewhat sceptical at this point. How,
she wonders, can a bunch of mathematical transformations, none
of which in particular can be tied to any meaningful assessment of
her credit-­worthiness, somehow all add up to saying something
about whether she should get a loan? So she tries a different
approach. Maybe looking at the low-­level computational details
of SmartCredit isn’t going to be illuminating, but perhaps she can
at least be told what it was in her history that SmartCredit found
objectionable. Was it her low annual income that was re­spon­
sible? Was it those late credit card payments in her early twenties?
Or was it the fact that she follows a number of fans of French film

9
 m a k ing a i in t e l l igibl e

on Twitter? Lucie here is trying her third question again—she is

still looking for other meaningful states of SmartCredit that
explain its final meaningful output, but no longer insisting that
those meaningful states be tied to specific low-­ level neuron
­conditions of the program.
Unfortunately, the bank doesn’t have much helpful to say about
this, either. It’s easy enough to spot particular variables in the ini-
tial data set—the bank can show her where in the input her annual
income is, and where her credit card payment history is, and
where her Twitter follows are. But they don’t have much to say
about how SmartCredit then assesses these different factors. All
they can do is point again to the cascading sequence of calcula-
tions—there are the initial numbers, and then there are millions
upon millions of mathematical operations on those initial num-
bers, eventually dropping out a final output number. The bank
explains that that huge sequence of mathematical operations is
just too long and complicated to be humanly understood—there’s
just no point in trying to follow the details of what’s going on. No
one could hold all of those numbers in their head, and even if they
could, it’s not clear that doing so would lead to any real insight
into what features of the case led to the final credit score.

Abstraction: The Relevant Features of the Systems

We Will be Concerned with in This Book

Our concern is not with any particular algorithm or AI systems. It

is also not with any particular way of creating a neural network.
These will change over time and the cutting edge of programming
today will seem dated in just a year or two. To identify what we

10
 in t roduc t ion

will be concerned with, we must first distinguish two levels at

which an AI system can be characterized:

• On the one hand, it is an abstract mathematical structure.

As such it exists outside space and time (it is not located
anywhere, has no weight, and doesn’t start existing at any
particular point in time).
• However, when humans use and engage with AI, they have
to engage with something that exists as a physical object,
something they can see or hear or feel. This will be the
physical implementation (or realization) of the
abstract structure. When Lucie’s application was rejected,
the rejection was presented to her as a token of numbers
and letters on a computer screen. These were physical
phenomena, generated by silicon chips, various kinds of
wires, and other physical things (many of them in different
locations around the world).

This book is not about a particular set of silicon chips and wires. It
is also not about any particular program construed as an abstract
object. So we owe you an account of what the book is about. Here
is a partial characterization of what we have in mind when we talk
about ‘the outputs of AI systems’ in what follows:3

• The output (e.g. the token of ‘550’ that occurs on a particular

screen) is produced by things that are not human. The non-­human
status of the producer can matter in at least three ways:
First, these programs don’t have the same kind of physical imple-
mentation as our brains do. They may use ‘neurons’, but their

3
This is not an effort to specify necessary and sufficient conditions for being
an AI system—that’s not a project we think is productive or achievable.

11
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
days,” and to washing and getting up a pair of cuffs with her own
hands.
“You look quite smart, Maddie,” said Laurence, as she completed
her toilet, and came and showed herself to him.
“Yes; I don’t look so very, very poor, do I?”
“No-o,” rather dubiously. Then he added, with a smile, “No one
who looks at your face will think of your clothes; and, indeed,
Maddie, it is not fit that such a pretty girl as you are should be
travelling alone, and third class, such a long journey.”
“Rubbish! rubbish! rubbish!” she answered emphatically. “I’ll wear
a veil, if that will please you; and, indeed, no one will notice me. If
they do, they will think I am some poor girl going to a situation. You
think every one must admire what you thought pretty, you stupid
Laurence; but I heard Mrs. Kane saying the other day that I’d grown
‘awfully plain.’ And it’s not my face Mrs. Harper will notice—you may
be certain of that!”
Ten minutes later she had kissed the sleeping baby, taken leave of
Laurence, given many whispered directions to Mrs. Kane’s niece,
and a whole half-sovereign from her little fund; and then, with a
beating heart, started on foot for a distant terminus. No, she would
not take even a twopenny fare in a ’bus; she must save every penny,
and she would have plenty of rest in the train. And so she had, of a
sort, on the hard, upright seat of a crowded third-class carriage for
eight mortal hours. There is not much repose in such a situation, nor
much sleep to be obtained; and the train roared along through the
inky black night, and tore through small stations with a shriek of
contempt that shook them to their foundations, and nearly shook the
teeth of the unhappy third-class passengers out of their heads. After
a whole night’s travelling of this uneasy description, Madeline arrived
at her destination—Riverside—and quickly alighted on the platform.
One trouble was spared her—luggage.
She went and washed her face and hands, arranged her hair,
shook off some of the dust in the waiting-room, invested fourpence in
a bun and cup of coffee, and felt herself sufficiently fortified to
encounter Mrs. Harper—but not Miss Selina. Another journey by rail,
a short walk, and she found herself once more on the familiar
doorstep of Harperton House, and rang timidly.
A strange maid (who knew not the delinquencies of Miss West)
opened the door, and was evidently surprised to behold such an
early visitor.
She informed her that Mrs. Harper was not down yet, nor Miss
Harper, and showed her into the drawing-room, which was in
process of being dusted. Here she waited for some time, whilst a
sound of hasty footsteps and voices was very audible above her
head. She looked around the room, and felt as if she had only
quitted it yesterday. And oh! what a gap there was in her life between
the last time she stood there, listening to Miss Selina’s spiteful
remonstrances, and now! But the room was precisely the same.
There was the best piano, on which she had had many a music-
lesson. There was Alice Burns’ big coloured-chalk drawing, Amy
Watson’s two water-colours; Florence Blewitt’s brass work, and
Isabella Jones’s photograph screen—all votive offerings to the
Harper family, and advertisements to pupils’ relatives who came to
make inquiries about the school.
Presently the door opened, and Miss Harper—if we may dare to
say so—burst into the room.
“Oh, Madeline!” she exclaimed, “so it’s you. She only said a young
lady. How more than thankful I am to see you!” shaking hands as
she spoke, and looking into her face with eager scrutiny. “You are
thin—very thin; but thin or fat, you are welcome back. Come up at
once to my mother’s room; she is dressing. She does not come
down early now, and she wants to see you” (here was an honour).
“Come, the girls are all in the schoolroom. The breakfast-bell will be
rung in ten minutes,” turning to lead the way. Then she paused for a
moment, with the handle in her hand. “You have heard about
Selina?” she asked, with a red spot on either cheek, and a spark in
either eye. “What! Have you not heard?” she added hurriedly.
Miss Selina! It was not of Miss Selina Madeline had come to hear;
and she shook her head and answered, “No; is she dead?”
 “Dead! She’s married. She married nearly a year ago,” returned
her sister, impressively, “Mr. Murphy, the red-haired curate. She—
she behaved atrociously. Don’t mention her to my mother, nor ask
about her, on any account. We don’t speak,” flinging the door wide
as she gasped out the last sentence.
All the reply Madeline made was “Indeed!” But nevertheless she
felt a very lively satisfaction to hear that her old enemy was no
longer an inmate of Harperton, and had gone away, like herself, in
disgrace.
“You will find my mother rather changed,” whispered Miss Harper,
as she rapidly preceded her upstairs. “She’s had a slight stroke. All
the troubles and annoyance about Selina were enough to kill her,
and she is not what she was. She never comes down till the
afternoon; but take no notice.”
“Madeline!” cried the old lady, as Madeline entered her room and
beheld her propped up in bed, in her best day cap. “This is too good
to be true! I scarcely expected it, though I have advertised every day
in the Times. Come here, my dear, and kiss me”—tendering a
withered cheek. The old lady’s mind was certainly affected, thought
her late pupil. That she who had been so ignominiously cast out
should be thus welcomed back, and with kisses, was scarcely
credible, unless viewed from the idea that Mrs. Harper had become
imbecile in the meanwhile. But no, the reason of this astonishing
change from the frost of neglect to the sun of welcome—affectionate
welcome—was a very potent one indeed. It was nothing less than
the prospect of a large sum of money.
Since Madeline had been banished, nothing had gone well. Her
place had been taken by a governess who had actually required a
salary, as well as civility, and had been a great encumbrance and
expense. Then came Selina’s wicked tampering with her sister’s
sweet-heart, a heart-burning scandal, family linen sent to the public
wash, and a serious falling off in the school. Things were going
badly. Every step was down hill—one girl leaving after another, and
there were many vacant places at the long dinner-table.
 At last came a letter—from Mr. West of all people! enclosing a
large draft on his bankers, and announcing his return a wealthy and
successful man. The draft was to pay for two years’ schooling, with
interest up to date; but for a whole year Miss West had been
elsewhere! How could they honestly claim these badly-wanted
pounds? They had banished the man’s daughter, and the money
must be restored.
Viewed now—in a softer light, through a golden atmosphere—
Madeline’s deeds were excusable. The poor girl had been Selina’s
victim, and therefore more to be pitied than blamed. Madeline must
be sought and, if possible, discovered and reinstated as if there had
been no hiatus, as if nothing disagreeable had occurred. And we
have seen the “state of life” in which Madeline had been found.
“Letitia, do you go down now, and presently send up a nice
breakfast for two—two fresh eggs—whilst I have a talk with dear
Madeline.” Thus the old lady, who still held the reins of authority,
although she had lost the use of her right hand; and Letitia, having
previously rehearsed the whole “talk” with her mother, and fearing
that “too many cooks might spoil the broth,” departed with meek
obedience.
“Take off your hat and jacket, my love, and make yourself at home.
I am sure you will not be surprised to hear—yes, put them on the
ottoman—that your father is alive and well, and returning an
immensely”—dwelling lovingly on the word—“rich man.”
Madeline’s heart bounded into her mouth, her face became like
flame. So her presentiment had come true!
“Ah! I see you are surprised, darling: so were we when we got his
letter, a week ago. Here, bring me that case, the green one on the
little table, and I’ll read it to you at once—or you may read it yourself
if you like, Madeline.”
Madeline did as requested, picked out a foreign letter in a well-
known hand, and sat down to peruse it beside Mrs. Harper’s bed.
That lady, having assumed her spectacles for the nonce, scanned
her late pupil’s face with keen intentness.
This is what the letter said:—
“Royal Kangaroo Club,
“Collins Street, Melbourne.
“My dear Mrs. Harper,
“After such a long silence, you will be surprised to see my
writing, but here I am. I am afraid Madeline has been rather
uneasy about me—and, indeed, no wonder. I met with some
terrible losses in bank shares two years ago: nearly the whole
of my life’s earnings were engulphed in an unparalleled
financial catastrophe. The anxiety and trouble all but killed me
—threw me into a fever, from the effects of which I was laid
up for months—many months, and when I again put my
shoulder to the wheel I was determined not to write home until
I was as rich a man as ever. I knew that you, who had had the
care of Madeline since she was seven, would trust me, and
everything would go on as usual. I had always been such
punctual pay, you would give me time for once. I am now, I
am glad to say, a wealthy man. Some lots of land I bought
years ago have turned up trumps—in short, gold. I am not
going to speculate again, but am returning home a millionaire,
and Maddie shall keep house in London, and hold up her
head among the best. Stray bits of news have drifted to my
ears. I heard a foolish story about some beggarly barrister or
curate and her. A schoolgirl wrote it to her brother; but I am
certain it was only girls’ tittle-tattle. Surely you would never
allow my heiress to play the fool! If she did, she knows very
well that I would disown her. I am a fond father in my way, and
a good father, as you can testify, but I’ll have no pauper
fortune-hunters, or puling love affairs. A hint from you to
Madeline, that at the least nonsense of that sort I marry again,
and let her please herself, will be, at any rate, a stitch in time.
She has had a good education. She can earn her bread; but I
know it is not necessary to continue this subject. You are a
sensible woman; Madeline is a sensible girl, if she is my
daughter. And I have great views for her, very great views. I
shall follow this letter in about six weeks’ time, and will write
 again before I leave. I shall come by the Ophir, Orient Line,
and you and Maddie can meet me in Plymouth. I enclose a
draft on my agents for six hundred pounds, five hundred for
Maddie’s schooling and outfit for two years, and the balance
for pocket-money and a few new frocks, so that she may be
smart when her old daddie comes home.”
Madeline paused, and shook the letter. No, no draft fluttered out.
“I have banked it,” put in Mrs. Harper, precipitately, who had been
scrutinizing every change in the girl’s face. “It is quite safe.”
“And now I must wind up, hoping soon to see Madeline,
and with love to her and compliments to yourself and
daughters, especially the lively Miss Selina.
“Yours faithfully,
“Robert West.”
“Well, Madeline, tell me what you think of that?” demanded Mrs.
Harper, wiping her glasses.
“I—I—am very glad of course,” she returned, her brain and ideas
in a whirl; but now fully comprehending the cause of Mrs. Harper’s
blandishments and welcome.
“We are so sorry, love, that we were so hasty about Mr. Wynne. It
was entirely Selina’s doing, I do assure you. I am most thankful to
see—especially after your father’s letter—that you did not marry him
after all!”
“Not marry him,” echoed the girl, colouring vividly. “What do you
mean?”
“I see you are not married by your hand,” pointing a long finger at
Madeline’s ringless member. “Is not that sufficient proof?” she asked
sharply.
Madeline was suddenly aware that she was at a crisis—a great
moral crisis—in her life, when she must take action at once, an
action that meant much. Her father’s letter, Mrs. Harper’s conclusion,
her own dire want, all prompted the quick decision made on the
instant. She would for the present temporise—at least till she had
met her father, told him her story in her own way, and accomplished
a full pardon. To declare now that she was a wife would be ruin—ruin
to her, death to Laurence, for of course her father would cut her off
with a shilling. She was aware that he had very strong prejudices, a
grotesque adoration for rank and success, and a corresponding
abhorrence of those who were poor, needy, and obscure; also that
he was a man of his word. This she had gleaned out in Australia
when but seven years of age. They had lived in a splendid mansion
in Toorak, the most fashionable suburb of Melbourne, and an elderly
reduced Englishwoman had been her governess. But because she
had permitted her to play with some children whose father was in
difficulties, who was socially ostracised, she had been discharged at
a week’s notice, and Madeline had been despatched to England. Her
father was peculiar—yes. In a second her mind was resolved, and,
with hands that shook as she folded up the crackling foreign
notepaper, she reassumed the character of Miss West!
 CHAPTER IX.
BARGAINING.

“You see, my love,” proceeded Mrs. Harper, in a smooth,

insinuating tone, “it is not every one who would take you back under
the circumstances;” and she paused, and peered at the girl over her
spectacles with a significant air. (The circumstances of five hundred
pounds, thought her listener bitterly.) “Will you give me your word of
honour that you have not been doing anything—unbecoming—
anything that—that—would reflect on your reputation? My dear, you
need not look so red and indignant. I’m only an old woman. I mean
no offence.”
“I have done nothing to be ashamed of, or which I shall ever blush
for or regret,” rejoined Madeline, impressively; “and to that I can give
my word of honour. But, Mrs. Harper, you ask strange questions—
and I am no longer at school.”
“Well, well, my dear—well, well; we did hear that you were in the
mantle department at Marshall and Snelgrove’s. I believe there are
ladies in these establishments;” and then she added craftily, “You
have such a nice, tall, slight figure—for trying on things. You were
always so graceful, and had such taking manners!”
“I was not there, Mrs. Harper,” returned Madeline; “and I cannot
tell you where I was, beyond that I lived with a friend, and that I was
very poor.”
“A friend, at Solferino Place?” quickly.
“Yes”—with visible reluctance—“at Solferino Place. And now what
do you want with me, Mrs. Harper?” she asked, with unexpected
boldness.
“Well, I wish”—clearing her throat—“and so does Letitia, to let
bygones be bygones; to allow your father to find you here, as if you
had never been away; to hush up your escapade—for though, of
course, I believe you—it might sound a little curious to him. No one
knows why you left, excepting Selina—Mrs. Murphy. It happened in
the holidays. These girls are a new set, and have never heard of
you; and, even if they had, they would not meet Mr. West, as he
arrives during the Easter term. Do you agree to this?”
“Yes,” replied Madeline, with sudden pallor, but a steady voice, “I
agree; it will be best.”
“That is arranged, then,” said the old diplomatist, briskly. “And,
now, what about the money?—what about that? Shall we keep the
five hundred pounds, and give you the balance?”
In former days Madeline would have assented to this proposition
at once; but now her heart beat tumultuously as she thought of
Laurence and the baby. She must secure all she could for their
sakes, and, feeling desperately nervous, she replied—
“No, I can’t quite see that, Mrs. Harper. To one year’s payment and
interest you are, of course, entitled; but the second year I worked for
my living—worked very hard indeed. You can scarcely expect to take
two hundred pounds, as well as my services—gratis.”
But Mrs. Harper had expected it confidently, and this unlooked-for
opposition was a blow. Madeline was not as nice as she used to be,
and she must really put some searching questions to her respecting
her absence, if she was going to be so horribly grasping about
money; and Madeline, blushing for very shame as she bargained
with this old female Shylock, reluctantly yielded one hundred pounds
for the year she had been pupil-teacher. It was money versus
character—and a character is expensive.
Mrs. Harper, on her part, undertook to arrange Madeline’s past
very completely, and Madeline felt that it must be veiled from her
father for the present—at any rate, until Laurence was better, and
able to resume work and a foothold on existence.
She had assured him yesterday that she would steal for him if
necessary. Was not this as bad, she asked herself, bargaining and
chaffering thus over her father’s money, and dividing it with the
greedy old creature at her side? However, she was to have one
hundred and eighty pounds for her share. Oh, riches! Oh, what could
she not do with that sum?
She was to return to her friends at Solferino Place for three weeks
—(she had struggled and battled fiercely for this concession, and
carried the day)—was then to return to Harperton, and be
subsequently escorted to Plymouth by Miss Harper, who would
personally restore her to her father’s arms.
After the morning’s exciting business, Madeline was wearied,
flushed, and had a splitting headache. She was not sorry to share
Mrs. Harper’s excellent tea, and to be allowed to take off her dress
and go and lie down in a spare room upstairs—a room once full, but
now empty—and there she had a long think; and, being completely
worn out, a long, long sleep.
After dinner—early dinner—she went out with Miss Harper, and
the money—her share—was paid to her without delay. She had
stipulated for this. Could it be possible that it was she, Madeline
Wynne, who stood opposite to the cashier’s desk cramming notes
and sovereigns into her sixpenny purse? As they pursued their walk,
Madeline recognized a few old faces, and many old places. She
purchased a new hat, which she put on in the shop; and she heard,
to her relief, that the Wolfertons had left, and gone to live abroad.
Some former schoolfellows, now grown up—no young plant grows
quicker than a schoolgirl—recognized and accosted her. These had
been day-boarders. They mentally remarked that she had turned out
very different to what they expected, and that she looked much older
than her age. “She was staying at Mrs. Harper’s, was she?”
Before they had time to ask the hundred and one questions with
which they were charged, Miss Harper prudently hurried her pupil
away, saying, as she did so—
“Least said, soonest mended, my dear. It’s well you had on your
new hat! Now you had better get some gloves.”
She was not quite as keen about the money as her mother, and
was inclined—nay, anxious—to be amiable. Madeline West, the
great Australian heiress, had possibilities in her power. She was
resolved to be friendly with her, and to reinstate her at once as the
favourite pupil of former days, burying in oblivion the teacher
interlude.
The girls Madeline had met walked on disappointed, saying to one
another—
“Fancy that being Maddie West! How awful she looks! So seedy,
and so thin and careworn; and she is barely my age—in fact, she is
a week younger!”
“And so frightfully shabby,” put in another.
“Did you see her dress—all creases?”
“And her gloves!” (The gloves were apparently beyond
description.)
“All the same, Miss Harper was making a great fuss—a great deal
of her. It was ‘dear’ this, and ‘love’ that. She is never affectionate for
nothing. I know the old boa-constrictor so well. Perhaps Maddie has
been left a fortune?” hazarded the sharpest of the party.
“Her dress and jacket looked extremely like it,” sneered number
one. “As to her hat, I saw it in at Mason’s this morning—I noticed it
particularly, marked eleven and ninepence. That looks like being an
heiress! Oh, very much so, indeed!”
The price of the hat settled the question!
 CHAPTER X.
MRS. KANE BECOMES AFFECTIONATE.

Mrs. Harper would not hear of Madeline returning to London by

night. No, it was a most shocking idea, and not to be entertained.
She must remain until the next day at least, “and travel properly,”
which meant that Miss Harper herself conducted the heiress to
Riverside, and saw her off by the morning express, first class. It was
in vain that Madeline protested that such precautions were quite
unnecessary. She was anxious to save her fare, and return third; for,
even with such wealth as one hundred and eighty pounds, every
shilling would be required. But her voice was silenced. Miss Harper
carried the day, took her late pupil to the station, gave her into the
charge of the guard, and even went so far as to present her with a
two-shilling novel, to wile away the journey (an attention that she
hoped would bear fruit by-and-by). But Madeline did not need it; her
own thoughts were sufficient to absorb her whole attention as she
travelled rapidly homeward. She was sensible of some disquieting
pangs when she thought of Laurence. Would he be angry when he
heard that his wife had once more assumed her maiden name, and
pretended that she was still Madeline West?
No, no; he must forgive her, when there was so much at stake.
Her hand closed involuntarily on her purse, that precious purse
which contained the first payment for the fraud, she had been
compelled to practise. About five o’clock that evening Madeline’s
quick foot was once more heard ascending the stairs, and with hasty
fingers she opened the sitting-room door, and rushed into her
husband’s presence. He was up and dressed—(at all but the worst
of times he would insist on dragging himself out of bed and dressing)
—seated at her table, laboriously doing some copying, with slow and
shaky fingers.
 It should here be stated, in justice to Mrs. Harper, that she had
passed Madeline under the harrow of searching inquiries, and
elicited the intelligence that she made her livelihood by law copying,
and she was satisfied that it was a respectable employment.
“Ah!” exclaimed the astute dame, “I suppose Mr. Wynne put that
bit of work in your way, did he?” Fortunately for her new rôle,
Madeline could truthfully reply “No,” for it was not Laurence who had
been the means of procuring this employment, such as it was, but
Mr. Jessop.
“You will give me your permanent address, Madeline,” said Mrs.
Harper, austerely. “That must be thoroughly understood.”
“But you have it already, Mrs. Harper.”
“Have you lodged there long?” she asked, feeling confident that no
well-known counsel at the bar could outdo her in crafty questions.
“Fourteen months,” said her pupil, rather shortly.
“Then you must have been pretty comfortable?”
To which Madeline evasively replied that she had been quite
happy. (No thanks to Mrs. Kane.)
And Mrs. Harper was satisfied. She had found out all she wished
to know. Madeline’s past was as clear as daylight now! Was it?
And now behold Madeline at home once more, flushed with
excitement, exhilarated by the change, by the money in her purse,
and with her bright eyes, bright colour, and new hat, making quite a
cheerful and brilliant appearance before the amazed and languid
invalid.
He was looking very ill to-day. These close stifling rooms and
sleepless nights were gradually sapping his scanty stock of vitality.
“Baby is asleep,” she said, glancing eagerly into the cradle. “And
now I am going to tell you all about it,” taking off her hat and gloves,
and pushing aside her husband’s writing materials, filling him up a
glass of port, fetching a biscuit, and taking a seat opposite to him, all
within the space of three minutes.
 “You have good news, Maddie, I see,” he remarked as he looked
at her, and noticed her condition of suppressed excitement, and her
sparkling eyes.
“Good?—news, yes; and money!” pulling out her purse and
displaying thick rolls of Bank of England notes, and some shining
sovereigns. “Oh, Laurence dear, I feel so happy, all but in one little
corner of my conscience, and I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me—
about something—that is the one drawback! I don’t know how to
begin to tell you—best begin with the worst. I’ve gone back to being
Madeline West once more; they don’t know that I am married.”
“Madeline!” he ejaculated sternly. “You are not in earnest.”
“Now, dear, don’t; don’t speak till you hear all. You know how I left,
how I travelled with the price of my rings. I arrived, was shown up
into Mrs. Harper’s own room—where, in old times, girls were sent for
to have bad news broken to them. She has had a stroke. Miss Selina
is married, and Mr. Murphy is gone. The school is going down. So
when Mrs. Harper had a letter from my father, enclosing five hundred
pounds for two years’ expenses, and one hundred for me for pocket-
money, it was a most welcome surprise, and they were anxious to
find me, of course”—pausing for a second to take breath. “Don’t
interrupt me, yet,” she pleaded, with outstretched hands. “Mrs.
Harper gave me papa’s letter to read. He had lost money, he had
been ill for a long time, he had no wish to write until he was again a
rich man. Now he is a millionaire, and is coming home immediately,
expecting to find me still at the Harpers’, and still Miss West. I am to
be a great heiress. I am to keep his house; and, Laurence dear, he
had heard a hint of you. I know it was that detestable gossip, Maggie
Wilkinson. She had a cousin in an office in Melbourne, and used to
write him volumes. And, oh, he says dreadful things—I mean my
father—if I marry a poor man, as he has such—such—views. That
was the word; and if I disappoint him, I am to be turned from his door
penniless, to earn my own bread!”
“As you are doing now,” observed her listener bitterly.
“Yes!” with a gesture of despair; “but what is it—for you and me
and baby—what are nine shillings a week? Then Mrs. Harper
exclaimed, with great relief, ‘I see you are not married!’ pointing to
my hand; and it all came into my mind like a flash. I did not say I was
not married, I uttered no actual untruth; but I allowed her to think so.
The temptation was too great; there was the wealth for the taking—
money that would bring you health. I said I would steal for you,
Laurence; but it was not stealing, it was, in a sense, my own money,
intended for my use. Are you very angry with me for what I have
done, dear?” she wound up rather timidly.
“No, Madeline. I see you could not help yourself, poor child, with
starvation staring you in the face, and a sick husband and infant to
support! Your father has views for you, has he? I wonder how this
view”—indicating himself and the cradle—“would strike him. As far
as I am concerned, it won’t be for long, and your father will forgive
you; but the child Maddie—on his account your marriage——”
“Laurence!” she almost screamed, “don’t! Do you think the child
would make up for you? Am I not doing all this for you—acting a
part, clothing myself in deceit, for you—only for you? Do not tell me
that it is all to go for nothing! If I thought that, I would give it up at
once. My sole object is to gain time, and money, until you are
yourself once more, and able to earn our living at your profession.
Then, having done all to smooth the way, I shall confess my
marriage to my father. If he renounces me, I shall still have you, and
you will have me. But, without this money to go on with, to get the
best advice, plenty of nourishment, and change of air, I don’t know
what I should do?” And she surveyed him with a pair of truly tragic
eyes. “It has come to me like a reprieve to a condemned criminal.
Say, Laurence, that I have done right. Oh, please, say it!” putting out
her hands, with a pretty begging gesture.
“No, dearest Maddie, I cannot say that; but I will say that, under
the circumstances, it was a great, an almost irresistible temptation.”
“Then, at least, say you are not angry with me.”
“I can say no to that from the bottom of my heart. How can I be
angry, when I myself am the cause—when it has all been done for
me? The only thing is, that there maybe difficulties later on,” looking
into the future with his practical lawyer’s eye. “There may be
difficulties and a desperate entanglement in store for you, my pretty,
reckless Maddie. You know the lines—

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When once we practise to deceive.’”

“At any rate, I shall make the best of my web,” said his wife,
springing up. “I am going to take Mr. Jessop into my confidence.”
“Are you? Well, I suppose it will be best.”
“Yes, of course it will; I am going to write to him now. The very first
doctor in London is to come and see you; and, as soon as you can
be moved, you go into the country—that I insist upon.”
“I go into the country, do I?” with a grim smile. He was saying to
himself, as he looked at her eager anxious face, that the only country
he would ever go into now would be down to the old burying-place of
the Wynne family. At least his relations could not refuse him
admission there, or close that door—the door of the family vault—in
his face.
And when he was at rest, under the walls of the old grey church,
Madeline, as a widow, would be as much her father’s heiress and
housekeeper as if she had never been a wife. In fact, her days of
misfortune would enhance her domestic worth, at least she had
learnt the value of money! As for himself, he was reduced to such a
low ebb, mentally and physically, that death would be a release. To
return to life—with a capital L—and to take up his heavy load, and
plod on and on like an omnibus horse, was not an alluring prospect.
Madeline’s future was safe, and he would rather be under the green
sod, with all the dead and gone Wynnes—when, after life’s fitful
fever, they slept well.
It will be seen from this that Mr. Wynne was in a bad way—too
weak, too hopeless, even to care to struggle back to health. But
Madeline had now sufficient energy for two. Hope pervaded her
young veins, decision and prompt action were its outcome, and
money was power.
In the first place, she scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Jessop, and
begged him to call on them that evening without fail. This she
despatched by a little boy, paying a precious sixpence to save time.
Then she descended like a whirlwind upon Mrs. Kane, and begged
to see her for a moment alone. She had made a bold resolve—there
was no alternative. She was about to take Mrs. Kane—the insolent,
the red-faced, the incredulous—into her confidence. She had
Hobson’s choice, and, in fact, was at her wits’ end. Supposing
inquiries were made, supposing Mrs. Harper wrote and asked
awkward questions, and who so ready to answer them—unless
previously prepared, previously bribed, previously flattered, by being
let into the secret—as Mrs. Kane?
“Mrs. Kane,” said Madeline, knocking at that lady’s door, the door
of her own sanctum, “I have something to say to you in private.”
“Bless me, Mrs. Wynne, how white your face is!” exclaimed the
other tartly, having been just about to sit down to her supper—tripe
and bottled stout. “Whatever is the matter now? Not the bailiffs—that
I do hope.”
“No, no, no; quite the contrary.” Then, struck by a happy thought,
“How much do we owe you, Mrs. Kane?”
“Ah, owe me!” rather staggered. “Let’s see, thirteen weeks, at ten
shillings, is six pounds ten; then the coal——Here,” making a raid on
a rickety writing-table, “I have it all down,” searching among some
papers. “Yes, here it is. Coal, one pound one, kindling wood,
matches, postage on a parcel—total, eight pounds, thirteen and
sevenpence-halfpenny. Are you going to settle it?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, I am,” replied Madeline, now drawing out her full, her
overflowing purse. What courage, what confidence were conferred
by the very feel of its contents! Mrs. Kane gazed at it with eyes as
distended as those of a bull frog, and with her mouth half-open. “A
ten-pound note, Mrs. Kane.” And Mrs. Wynne tendered one as she
spoke.
 “So I see,” in a milder key. “I’ll get you change, and, though I says
it as shouldn’t, it’s not everybody, you know yourself, who would
have——”
“Yes, quite true, I know all that already, thank you, Mrs. Kane.
Never mind the change just now, it can go towards the milk bill. What
I wanted to speak to you about is to tell you a family secret—which
concerns me.”
“A family secret! Laws, Mrs. Wynne!” suddenly seating herself with
a plunge, and looking at her lodger with a countenance of gratified
anticipation, “whatever can it be?”
“Promise, on your solemn word of honour, not to tell any one.”
“Oh, I’m as safe as a church; no one will get anything out of me”—
mentally resolving to tell her niece and husband without any churlish
delay—“unless it’s something not on the square.”
“It is quite on the square; you need not fear. Once I was a Miss
West.”
“So you told me,” nodding her head.
“I was at school near Riverside for a good many years. My father
is an Australian merchant—very rich.”
“Oh, indeed!” in a comfortable tone.
“But for two years he had not been heard of, we thought that he
was dead, and I became a teacher at school. Mr. Wynne saw me
there, and paid me attention, which displeased Mrs. Harper very
much. I was sent away, and we were married. We have been here
ever since.”
“So you have,” agreed Mrs. Kane, as much as to say, “And it’s
highly to your credit!”
“Well, now my father has written at last; he is coming home,
immensely rich. He has not heard of my marriage.”
“Laws, you don’t say so!” in a tone of admiration and
astonishment.
 “No one has heard of it, you see. I had no friends. And if my father
knew that I had married a poor man, he would be dreadfully angry—
at least at first. I went down to Mrs. Harper’s; she showed me his
letter. She thinks I am not married, for,” holding up her bare left hand,
“I pawned my rings to pay my railway fare.”
“Oh, my goodness! Did you really, now?”
“And she took it for granted that I was still Miss West. I confessed
nothing. I told her I had lived here for fourteen months, that I worked
at law stationery, and was very poor, and she was apparently
satisfied; but, all the same, I firmly believe she will write and ask you
all about me. Neither she nor my father must know of my marriage—
yet. And now, are you quite prepared? I am Miss West, you know,
who has lived with you since last January year. You understand, Mrs.
Kane?”
“Oh yes!” with an expressive wink. “A nice, quiet, respectable
young lady—never going nowhere, keeping no company, and I only
wishes I had a dozen like her. I’ll give it her all pat, you be quite
certain,” said her landlady, rubbing her bare fat arms with the liveliest
delight at her own rôle in the piece. “But how about Mr. Wynne and
the baby?” she asked slyly.
“You need not mention them. It will be all right later on, when I see
my father and prepare him, you know. But now I am obliged to keep
him in the dark. Mrs. Harper would not have given me my money,
had she known. It’s only for a short time that I am forced to resume
my old name, and I assure you, Mrs. Kane, that it’s not very
pleasant.”
“Ay, well now, I think it’s rather a joke—something like a play at the
Adelphi, where in the end the father comes in and blesses the young
couple, and they all live together, happy as sand-boys, ever after.
That will be your case, you’ll see!” emphatically.
“I hope so, but I doubt it,” returned her lodger. “I will be content if
my husband recovers his health. Money is nothing in comparison to
health.”
 “Ay, may be so; but money is a great comfort all the same,” said
Mrs. Kane, squeezing the note affectionately in her hand, and
wondering how many more of the same quality were in Mrs. Wynne’s
purse—“a great comfort!”
“Well then, now you know all, Mrs. Kane,” said the other, rising, “I
can depend on you? You will be our friend in this matter, and, believe
me, you will be no loser.”
“Certainly you can’t say fairer nor that, can you, ma’am?—though,
as far as I’m concerned, I’m always delighted to oblige a lady for
nothing, and I always fancied you from the first time I saw you in the
hall, and you knocked over that pot of musk, and so Maria will tell
you. As for the secret, wild horses would not tear it from me; and I’m
that interested in you, as I couldn’t express to you, and allus was—
you ask Maria—just as if you was my own daughter. I can’t say fairer
nor that, can I?”
And opening the door with a wide flourish, she waved Madeline
through, who, rather staggered by this unexpected compliment,
passed quickly into the lobby, and with a farewell nod, hurried back
to her family in the upper regions, and set about preparing tea. She
also made preparations for the expected visit of their chief
counsellor, Mr. Henry Jessop.